Chapter Twenty-Three:

  “Dread”

  As the last flickers of the barrier clung to the sky like dying embers, Lord Vassoth stood unmoving at the bow of his flagship—the Dread Tide.

  The sky was a canvas of ruin, streaked with fractures that spidered across the barrier like veins of shattering light.. Arcane cannon fire scorched the horizon, each volley shaking the shield that had denied him entry for three hundred years.

  He watched, unblinking. Still.

  The sight should have stirred triumph. Instead, he simply waited.

  His breath came slow, controlled. A strand of drool clung to the edge of his lip, forgotten until a clawed gauntlet wiped it away. Hunger simmered beneath his stillness, but he did not move. Not yet.

  The Dread Tide groaned beneath him. Its hull, once carved from living oak, now pulsed with corruption—planks that shivered, groaned, and resealed themselves like wounded flesh. The sails twisted in place, catching wind that didn't blow. Below, the ship's underbelly clicked and shifted. The crawl of too many legs. The slither of things that had once known names.

  His fleet stretched beyond sight—three thousand strong, each vessel remade by ruin. They encircled the bay like vultures waiting for their meal to stop twitching. Their barrage never ceased.

  The barrier was dying.

  And when it fell, he would burn the world behind it.

  His fingers tightened on the railing. The wood wept black where his claws sank in.

  Once, this ship had flown the banner of the Thousand Isles.

  Now, it bore no flag.

  Only scars.

  And still, he waited.

  A rustle behind him broke the silence.

  Vassoth turned his head slightly. One of his crew had emerged from the lower deck—his first mate, or what remained of him. The figure moved with twitching uncertainty, one leg dragging slightly, his spine bent under the weight of rot and fused armor.

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  In his warped hand he carried a scroll.

  The parchment trembled, the wax seal already broken. From its fibers leaked a faint black smoke, tendrils curling and dissipating as they touched the open air. The messenger—a corrupted raven—twitched and spasmed where it had died on the deck.

  Tar-black ichor bled from its mouth, each drop hissing where it touched the ship. Vassoth stared down at it in silence.

  The first mate hesitated, the scroll held out in clawed fingers. The corruption beneath his skin pulsed faster, the stench of panic radiating off him in waves. Even here, even among horrors, Sterling’s name carried weight.

  Vassoth took the scroll without a word.

  He read.

  Each line curled tighter in his mind.

  When he reached the last, his fingers clenched. The parchment burned to ash between his claws. It didn’t fall. The flakes simply vanished, black fire devouring every trace.

  Sterling was regaining strength.

  Princess Hex would be coming with him.

  And if the barrier still stood when they arrived...

  Vassoth’s conquest would be nothing. Worse, he would be nothing.

  Failure had already been written. This was a chance at erasure.

  He said nothing.

  The crew shifted uneasily across the deck.

  And the Dread Tide groaned.

  Vassoth didn’t move.

  He stared out across the water, claws flexed against the railing, breath slow and steady—though now, something sharp tugged at the edges of that calm. A feeling he hadn’t let in for centuries.

  Not doubt.

  Not defeat.

  Fear.

  Not of Pearl Bay. Not of the barrier, or the players who had returned to resist him.

  No—of Sterling.

  The Dark One’s judgment hung heavier than any blade.

  Once, Vassoth had followed him proudly. He had sworn loyalty. Taken the offered power. Helped bring ruin to Eldoria in exchange for promises of more.

  And now?

  Now he stood on a warship made of Corruption. Surrounded by monstrosities and the damned.

  He exhaled, mist curling from the gaps in his armor.

  The man he’d been had no name anymore. Only purpose. Only orders.

  Only survival.

  His armor creaked as he turned back toward the center of the deck. His first mate still stood there, silent, waiting.

  “Your orders?” the creature rasped, head bowed low.

  Vassoth’s voice was low. Measured. “Increase the bombardment.”

  The command carried across the ship like thunder under water.

  The crew stirred at once, scraping, shifting, slithering into motion. Some moved on limbs. Some on less.

  The Dread Tide readied to fire again.

  The first mate raised a crooked hand. His voice, though broken, carried.

  "Ready the cannons."

  The Dread Tide's deck trembled as the command rippled across the ship. All around them, corrupted crew members moved in jerks and jolts, shapes no longer quite human scrambling into place.

  Cables snapped taut. Gears spun. Arcane glyphs flared across rusted metal.

  The Dread Tide's broadside began to glow, each cannon slowly filling with burning black light. The Corruption laced through them pulsed like veins, pumping unnatural power into every shot.

  Beyond the prow, the barrier still held.

  Barely.

  Light shimmered like thread unraveling in slow motion, every shiver a cry against the dark.

  Vassoth stepped forward, eyes locked on the horizon.

  “Fire.”

  The volley launched.

  Black fire screamed across the water, trailing smoke that hissed and curled like clawed fingers. The cannons belched thunder. The ocean recoiled.

  The shots struck.

  Light flared. The barrier howled.

  For a moment, the world felt like it cracked.

  The screaming didn’t stop.

  And neither did Vassoth.